


Zenith

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28746522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon goes down into the gorge.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	Zenith

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Ink billows out the cave like smoke across the surface of the sea. It parts around Mairon’s slender frame in drips and drabs, slicking across his bare chest and tangling in his fire-red hair, staining a few gold strands into dark amber. That should be one of many overt signs to turn tail and swim as fast, as far as he can, all the way back to the safety of Aulë’s forge. But Mairon’s drawn into the darkness like chains have sprung out around him, set to drag him in headfirst. 

Ducking beneath the sharp overhang, Mairon wades through the murky water, infinitely thicker than the clear blue open valley of the other Valar. There’s something about that cloying atmosphere that gets to Mairon, crawls under his skin and seeps right into his lungs, makes him crave and _want_ —it’s so satisfying to be swamped in the raw heat and all-consuming blackness down in this ravine. The growth along the floor is different here, the reefs and anemones fluorescent blues and greens, enough to light his way through the twisting caverns. Mairon passes fish with jaws like sharks and bulging, unseeing eyes, others with gnarled vertebrae that glow right through their transparent flesh. He slithers past an enormous pair of claws that snap at the ends of his maroon fins, but Mairon swims past with ease. These depths have become a second home to him, if not in practice than in his heart. He knows when he’s getting closer to the center. He senses the deepest part of the whole ocean up ahead, and he sinks down between chipped rocks like being sucked into an active volcano. 

He hasn’t even brushed the bottom when he’s captured. Smooth ropes snap out and bind him, snaking up his arms and around his waist, a few even tangling in the long waves of his hair. He’s pulled down into a gaping recess where a great shadow waits, silhouetted in bioluminescent coral. It only takes a few seconds for Mairon’s eyes to adjust. Perhaps it’s that he’s ventured into these forbidden waters far too often, but he likes to think the darkness is natural to him—that he was _created_ for this. He enjoys himself, hammering out trinkets in Aulë’s halls, but this place calls to him like no other. And he knows well it’s Melkor singing. 

Melkor pulls Mairon right to him, though Mairon would have swam willingly, eager for the closeness, the feverish warmth of Melkor’s body amidst the steam around them, bubbling out of the very plating beneath the sand. The tentacle around his waist tightens, turning over so that the suction cups along the bottom can weld into his skin, pressing hard enough to bruise. Melkor tends to do that—possessively mark Mairon up, even though he’ll tell Mairon afterwards to be clever about it, to tell no one he’s disobeyed his master’s orders once again. He’ll drape a shawl around himself when he returns and be careful how he swims until the red-purple circles fade away, and then he’ll swim right back to earn them again. It’s why he never wears any trappings when he comes to Melkor. He exposes himself, ripe for the taking, and actually _purrs_ when the tip of one wayward tentacles curls beneath his chin. 

It tilts him up to peer into Melkor’s hollow eyes, pure white and piercing. Mairon pants, sucking and breathing out the water twice as fast. His tail does its best to curl back around Melkor’s hulking frame, right where his chiseled chest transitions from smooth brown-grey to black-purple, soft skin to slick bumps and grooves—the part where they differ most. Melkor doesn’t have the smooth scales of other Valar, of even Maiar, like Mairon’s own sleek orange tail. Melkor has ever-changing, ever reaching tentacles, more than any octopus and more deadly than any squid, capable of all kinds of wonders. Maybe that appearance is what he was banished for, but Mairon suspects it’s something far more _wicked_.

He yearns for that cruelty that wafts off Melkor in waves. He loves the way Melkor teases him, holding him just out of reach of a kiss but so perilously close. Melkor hisses across his lips, vile and rasping, “You are a long way from your master’s pretty pond.”

Mairon fights his bonds enough to lift one hand, curling his fingers against his palm and turning his wrist outwards, showing off a golden bracelet clasped tight around it. “I made you a gift,” he answers, the reverence clear in his voice and eyes. “A bangle for one of your tentacles... I would decorate them all, in time...”

A thin smile twists Melkor’s pale lips. It’s a beautiful thing, pleased and so wholly dominant that Melkor actually shivers. The tentacle around his forearm slips away, rising up and waiting—Mairon understands. He moves his other hand over to remove the bracelet, and then he carefully slides it over the thick limb before him. He presses it snug, not fearing to hurt Melkor, because he doesn’t think anything can. Melkor lifts his tentacle after to examine his present, and he seems to like it well enough. 

He murmurs, “Beautiful,” which is enough to make Mairon’s heart soar, and then he leans in to bring their lips together, and Mairon drowns in a fearsome kiss. Melkor captures him completely, filling his entire mouth up with tongue and nearly choking him with it, licking him out and scraping his sides, pulling back to bite at his chin and draw sharp teeth along his ear. The noise he makes is absolutely sinful, but everything here with Melkor is _delicious sin._

Mairon is reeling when Melkor pulls away again. He mutters, “Now go home, my lovely little flame. I can hear your master calling. You will have to come again when he sleeps longer.”

There are some moments where Mairon’s glad he’s only a Maiar. He doesn’t want to hear Aulë’s voice in his head, doesn’t want to know what all others are doing around him. He only wants to exist here, with Melkor’s music in his mind, tangled up in Melkor’s net, never to be set free. 

But he knows he’s welcome to return. Always is. There are monsters in the deep that could devour him so easily if that were Melkor’s wish, and it isn’t—he thinks Melkor might even look forward to these visits as much as him. As the tentacles pull away from him, searing his skin in their wake, he offers a thankful bow for all the marks they leave. 

Then he turns and swims away, burning for a swift return.


End file.
